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I love you, you weirdo
Most people don't notice it, too busy with the outward projection of calm competence and heroism.
Rodney, on the other hand, has come to accept the fact that John Sheppard is completely insane. It's mostly easy to ignore by now. He's woken up with a foot jammed against his cheek, John snoring obliviously with his face pillowed on Rodney's leg; he's opened his eyes and found a Mr. Potato Head staring right back at him. On one memorable occasion, he'd stirred right as John was carefully setting a red bow from the night before's holiday celebration on his nose.
That's why it takes him so long to realize that there's a yellow post-it note stuck to his forehead when he stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom. He pees and sets out the bath rug so he doesn't slip and break his neck on the tiles that are wet from John's shower. He starts the coffee pot next to the sink.
"Oh," he says dumbly. After a minute of deciphering the backward mirror-image of the note, Rodney rolls his eyes. "God, you are so weird."
"You love me," John grins, hair slicked flat against his forehead, sticking up in the back in its uncanny way. He looks ridiculous, and Rodney's chest tightens just feeling the soft brush of those familiar water-warmed fingers down his side.
"That's debatable," he grumbles, but when John tugs him back by his hips, he goes eagerly.
Rodney, on the other hand, has come to accept the fact that John Sheppard is completely insane. It's mostly easy to ignore by now. He's woken up with a foot jammed against his cheek, John snoring obliviously with his face pillowed on Rodney's leg; he's opened his eyes and found a Mr. Potato Head staring right back at him. On one memorable occasion, he'd stirred right as John was carefully setting a red bow from the night before's holiday celebration on his nose.
That's why it takes him so long to realize that there's a yellow post-it note stuck to his forehead when he stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom. He pees and sets out the bath rug so he doesn't slip and break his neck on the tiles that are wet from John's shower. He starts the coffee pot next to the sink.
"Oh," he says dumbly. After a minute of deciphering the backward mirror-image of the note, Rodney rolls his eyes. "God, you are so weird."
"You love me," John grins, hair slicked flat against his forehead, sticking up in the back in its uncanny way. He looks ridiculous, and Rodney's chest tightens just feeling the soft brush of those familiar water-warmed fingers down his side.
"That's debatable," he grumbles, but when John tugs him back by his hips, he goes eagerly.